


from june to september

by bigspoonnoya



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Development, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Romance, just all of the things I love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8850418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigspoonnoya/pseuds/bigspoonnoya
Summary: This is the summer they fell in love.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place in the months between the onsen on ice and the prefectural competition, so between episodes 4 and 5. i felt like there was so much of viktor and yuuri falling in love that we didn't get to see, and i wanted to fill in the gaps.
> 
> it's been less than a week since i started yoi. lol.

**June**

“It’s beautiful here!”

Viktor rides ahead of Yuuri’s jog on his bike, and calls over his shoulder breathlessly. Yuuri barely hears him—he has to hop and catch the words before they drift down the road at his back. “It is,” he huffs, though he can’t spare the breath. The coast stretches along their right. In the mid-summer sun, the water’s surface looks perfectly blue and perfectly inviting. Sweat dribbles down Yuuri’s brown. He wipes it just before it reaches his eye.

“How far have we gone?”

Yuuri checks the pedometer on his wrist. “Seven kilometers.”

“Okay! Three more.”

Viktor’s bike slips back a few paces, so he rides alongside Yuuri. He’s dressed neither for biking nor summer—a long-sleeved linen button-down and slacks. A person might think him immune to the sun, but that would make a person silly. So Yuuri scours the thought from his brain.

“Yuuri, do you like this routine?”

“Huh?”

“Ten kilometers, twice a week, in whatever direction we choose!”

“Ah.” Yuuri inhales deeply in order to answer. “It’s good. Though the taxis back are expensive. If we planned—”

“No planning,” says Viktor, emphatically. “Planning a route discourages stamina. True stamina is being prepared for the unexpected.” He drags a hand through the air over his head. “And this is more fun. We are on an adventure, are we not?”

“Uh-huh.” Yuuri can’t pretend he understands that, exactly, but Viktor is here to help him win. And Yuuri trusts him to do that—who wouldn’t? He’s _good_ at winning. Better than Yuuri has ever been. So here Yuuri is, running ten kilometers in a different direction each week, with no plan to get home.

“I only wish Makkachin could come with us… but ten kilometers is too much for a dog in the summer. Even one as healthy as Makkachin.”

“Yuh!” (What happens when ‘yes’ turns into a wheeze.)

“I hope to be a good coach for you.” Viktor looks up while he talks, as though barely addressing Yuuri at all. “You know, this is my first attempt at it. Don’t be afraid to give me feedback as to where you feel you could be coached better.” _I will never do that_. “Of course, I reserve the right to disagree. More likely than not, you’ll have no idea what you’re talking about.”

That sounds more correct. Yuuri manages an affirmative nod, which Viktor spies out the corner of his eye. He smiles broadly.

“This will be an exciting time for us. We’ll get to know each other.”

Yuuri sweats harder at the thought of Viktor ‘getting to know’ him. It already feels like Viktor knows more about Yuuri than he was ever meant to—he had crossed an invisible barrier from Yuuri’s fantasy life into his very real, kind of sad _life_ life.

“I hope we can become very close. For your skating, of course. Trust is key to good coaching.”

Some part of Yuuri feels that Viktor accompanies him on these long runs just so he can think aloud for a long time with no one trying to interrupt him. And Yuuri can’t muster up any outrage at being used, not when it’s by Viktor. His voice gives momentum to Yuuri’s jog, like a lilting carrot at the end of a Russian-accented stick.

Whenever Viktor looks to him for an answer, he simply nods or shrugs or smiles, whatever is appropriate in the moment. The minutes past faster than you would think—the slap of his shoes against pavement, the soundtrack of Viktor talking about nothing. He could get used to it.

“Oh, a _vendor_ ,” says Viktor, surging ahead on his bike. “Yuuri! Take a break and eat some of whatever this man is selling!”

It turns out to be a hot bun, and Yuuri declines, reminding Viktor that he’s technically in the midst of a ten kilometer run.

Viktor props his bike up against the rail that separates the path from the rocky beach. “Where did you get that?” Yuuri asks, a weak attempt at conversation while Viktor picks at his bun.

“Hm?” Viktor glances at the bike. “Oh. A bike shop in town.”

Okay, not a climactic answer. It seems obvious now—Yuuri feels embarrassed for asking and resolves never to speak again. Only a few days have passed since their conversation on the beach, and Yuuri no longer avoids Viktor outside of training, but any interaction that ventures beyond skating and katsudon daunts him with its complexity. His abysmal social skills have sunk to new depths. Next thing he knows he’ll be exploring the Mariana Trench.

While venturing down this panicked train of thought, he fails to notice Viktor staring at him. That doesn’t last long. Yuuri jumps—Viktor does this sometimes, gets this expectant look in his eyes while he’s watching Yuuri, his mouth puckering in excitement. It would make Yuuri want to crawl inside Viktor’s head and see just what the heck is going on, if the prospect of what he’d find didn’t thoroughly terrify him.

“Y—yes?”

Viktor’s pucker breaks into a smile. And that’s… it?

“Viktor?”

He tosses his half-eaten bun to an interested seagull. “We should go before you cool down.”

Viktor talks less in the last half of their run. Perhaps this is because he’s somehow capable of browsing Instagram while piloting his bike one-handed (a fine use of the dexterity that’s won him five Grand Prixes), but Yuuri can’t help feeling he’s caused offense, too. He hadn’t said anything of significance, hadn’t really done anything at all. Only Viktor had looked at him expecting something, and Yuuri didn’t know what that was, so he couldn’t deliver. A sense of premonition floods Yuuri, making him shiver even in the heat.

They return home and share a bath in the onsen, Viktor singing softly to himself in Russian. Yuuri sits as far away from him as he can manage, submerged up to his chin.

“Shall we go do something after dinner tonight?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri inhales a little bathwater at the suggestion, and takes a moment to cough it out before responding. “Do… what?”

“Mm, I don’t know. I haven’t gotten to see much of the town yet.” He slaps the top of the water. “We should go to one of those little shops with the red lanterns!”

“An izakaya?”

“Yes, that.”

Yuuri smiles weakly. He tries to think of a way out of this—drinking with Viktor strikes him as a bad idea, for some reason—but his mind’s excuse factory shuts down. It does that a lot, actually. Not a very reliable factory. “Okay?”

Viktor slaps the water again, this time forcing Yuuri to turn away from the splash. “Good. We must do something fun.”

Naturally Viktor brings up their plans over dinner, and Mari rattles off ten recommendations for izakayas around town. Yuuri’s discomfort compounds—he’d thought he would just take Viktor to his usual place, the one he and Yuuko would go to when she encouraged him to be more social. There, at least, he could feel a shred of comfort, rather than wandering lost around a home city he hadn’t frequented in five years.

His weak protests are met with insistence. “This is excellent,” Viktor says. “I will learn the city as you relearn it. We’ll rule the streets.” Yuuri laughs weakly, and uses a mouthful of curry to shut himself up.

 

 

 

This night can’t be the triumph Viktor had in mind.

After fifteen minutes in the first of Mari’s izakayas, he’s drumming his fingers against the table and smiling vacantly at the space above Yuuri’s head. It’s a Friday night, so the place isn’t deserted, but the crowds in Hasetsu must be nothing like what Viktor’s used to.

 _He’s bored. I’m boring him._ It figures—Yuuri bores himself, sometimes. How was he ever supposed to keep _Viktor_ interested?

“Perhaps we should order something to eat?” Viktor chirps.

Yuuri nods.Viktor’s eyes flash with an unfamiliar look, and his smile visibly shrinks. _Only you could find it in yourself to offend him with a nod_ , Yuuri thinks, fighting his urge to slide under the table.

Viktor flags down a waiter. “The karaage, please.”

Yuuri doesn’t know how to mention that fried food makes him sluggish the next day, so he says nothing. He feels like if he opens his mouth, something is bound to slip out he doesn’t want Viktor to know—something he isn’t ready to share. Viktor already knows _so much_.

“Are you enjoying your wine?”

Yuuri has to clear his throat, it’s been so long since he spoke. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t thank me. I won’t be paying.” Yuuri blinks at him, and Viktor laughs once, dryly. “A little humor! To lighten the mood. Don’t worry—what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t buy your drink?”

Yuuri wants to say, _the kind of gentleman who isn’t on a date with a woman_ , but he isn’t brave enough for a comeback. He’d need at least two more glasses of wine—so he nods again. The same strange look flashes in Viktor’s eyes. Yuuri sticks his face into his glass, hoping to make the time pass faster.

“Yuuri.”

He chokes on his drink. The second time today he’s had a coughing fit because of Viktor, who looks on with one perfect eyebrow raised.

“Yes?” Yuuri finally wheezes.

“I thought after our conversation last week, you would be more comfortable with me. But you’re incapable of speaking to me casually.”

Yuuri gapes at him, not knowing what to say, because… Viktor is right, of course. And Yuuri can’t just nod again. “I… that’s true.”

“Hmph,” says Viktor. “At least you don’t deny it. That’s a start.”

“I never deny when I have a problem. I usually do the opposite, actually.” That’s a bit of a self-deprecating joke, not one he expects Viktor to catch—but, lo and behold, the corner of Viktor’s mouth turns up. He has the most expressive mouth Yuuri has ever seen, sensitive and nuanced in its scheming, saying more than his words ever could.

“I want to know how I can help you to feel more comfortable around me.” Viktor leans forward. “It’s my first time as a coach, so you might have to guide me on this. But I know we have to trust one another. You don’t trust me right now, do you?”

Trust Viktor? How could he not trust Viktor, his idol of fifteen years? _Because you’re too smart for that._ To trust someone is to know them, who they are, what they would and wouldn’t do. And you can own a million posters, read every interview, watch every program, but you’ll never know the celebrity until you shake their hand—you’ll never trust them until you can let them into your heart. For all Viktor has been in his life, Viktor has never truly _been in his life_. Here he sits, the living breathing man, and Yuuri is clobbered by the realization that he barely knows Viktor Nikiforov. They’re not much more than strangers.

Yuuri shakes his head. “I don’t. No.”

Viktor sits back, inhaling deeply, any trace of a smile vanished. “That’s not good, then, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“How can I earn your trust?”

“I’m not sure, I just… I just don’t know you that well, and I’m still not completely sure why you’re here to help me. Though I appreciate it! I do. I really do.” He fiddles with his glasses on the bridge of his nose. No wonder he’s been avoiding talking to Viktor, this is a trainwreck.

“Wow,” Viktor sighs, chin on his fist. “There’s a lot to unpack there.”

“Please don’t unpack me, just…” Yuuri wishes there were a gentler way to tell him _it’s not me, it’s you._ _You’re the one we need to talk about right now_. “You’re—mysterious?”

Viktor’s eyes light up. “Mysterious?”

It wasn’t Yuuri’s goal to flatter him. Flattery is in the wrong direction, if anything. “A little bit strange, I mean.”

Viktor’s eyes bulge slightly. He’s less attractive when he looks like that. “ _Strange?_ ”

Their waiter arrives and slides the karaage between them, but this fails to distract Viktor from his upset. He shoves a massive bite of chicken into his mouth, whimpering.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Yuuri says, hoping to get them back to progress, or at least returned to awkward neutrality. “Only… we decided I needed to open up to you, and I’m trying.” Yuuri ducks his head. “But it’s hard when that… that transparency only goes one way.”

Viktor swallows. “Mysterious is sexier than strange,” he mutters, like he missed the last thing Yuuri said, but that can’t be true. He rolls his neck, tosses his hair from his eyes, and leans toward Yuuri.

The tilt of his chin captures Yuuri’s unwavering attention—amazing how he can command one person just like he commands a room, flipping his _je-ne-sais-quoi_ on with a switch. Yuuri prepares to receive whatever it is Viktor will bless him with, slipping back into child-like wonder at Viktor’s existence, a wonder he’s lost in the past few weeks. Possessively he’ll collect any bit of knowledge Viktor offers about himself and store it away, pretending he’s the only one in the world who knows. He’ll call back on it whenever he struggles to trust, secure in the knowledge that, once upon a time in a crowded izakaya, Viktor granted him a kernel of exclusivity.

Then Viktor opens his mouth and says, “This karaage is good. What do they spice it with?”

“Um.” Yuuri’s face is hot. He stares at the table, hoping to disguise his blush. “I don’t know. I’ve never been here before.”

“We should ask the cook. Then I can tell your mother about it. She’s a wonderful woman—have I told you that?”

“You’ve mentioned it,” says Yuuri, his voice coming out strained. Was he arrogant to think Viktor might listen to him? Does he misunderstand how their relationship is supposed to work? It seems likely, right now—it wouldn’t be the first time he’s failed to wrap his head around something that comes easily for others.

Viktor launches into a less-than-definitive ranking of the Japanese foods he’s tried so far, and Yuuri gradually overcomes his embarrassment. By the time they leave the izakaya an hour later, he’s recovered enough to laugh at the sight of Viktor trying to selfie with the lantern outside, and his subsequent complaining about how pink he looks in the picture.

“Let’s go to the beach,” Viktor insists. “I love the beach at night.”

Yuuri has to agree. Something about the way it feels to stand by the ocean at night makes his chest swell—that endlessness of the water, and the dark swaddling him—he could go anywhere and no one would know. The summer night has cooled and he shivers at the breeze. The water is black, the caps of distant waves are white, the moonlight leaves a glittering streak across the sea. Yuuri’s sneakers sink an inch into the damp sand with each step. This is freedom.

He hears Viktor inhale deeply at his side. “The air is so clean. I think I breathe better here.”

“Yes, it’s refreshing.” Everything Viktor has said since ignoring Yuuri’s request for transparency has felt half-assed and consolatory, and the conversation is halting.

“I saw a picture of the sea before I came here. I wasn’t impressed, but it’s better in person,” says Viktor. “That’s been my experience with this place in general.”

“Thanks, I think?”

“You’re welcome!” Viktor gives him a sideways smile. His face and hair are completely white in the moonlight. “I’m pleased with my decision to come here. I feel like I have a new life.” Funny how one person can talk so much without saying much of anything at all. “Do you know how old I was when I started skating?”

Yuuri does some quick mental math. “Six or seven?”

“Possibly,” Viktor laughs. “I don’t actually remember. I don’t remember when I started—as far back as my memories go, I’ve skated. Isn’t that funny?”

Yuuri can’t see the humor in it. Skating is Viktor’s greatest love, his passion—and he can’t remember when he started? This is beyond his typical forgetfulness. “I think it’s…” He catches Viktor’s expectant stare. “Do you honestly want to know?” Viktor nods once. “I think it’s kind of sad. Shouldn’t that be an important milestone?” Yuuri can remember his own first lesson clearly, including the exact spot he’d found his first blister afterward. The scar never faded.

“Well, I don’t remember being born, either, and that was an important milestone.”

 _That’s_ funny, and Yuuri chuckles. “I guess you’re right.”

“Come sit with me,” Viktor declares, clearing a spot for them on a dry patch of sand.

Yuuri follows his lead, though he’s hesitant. They’re not far from where they were when they talked last week, and that makes him nervous, for some reason.

“I don’t think of skating as something I _began_ —it’s always been there.” Viktor looks out at the moonlight on the bay while he talks. Yuuri hugs his knees to his chest and watches his lips move. “Naturally, if something never began for you, it’s difficult to come to terms with it ending.” A pang in Yuuri’s chest. _Is he talking to me about…_ “I’m not really a man of mourning or tears or any of that,” Viktor adds lightly. “But I did realize something. Without skating, I would be lonely.”

“Lonely?”

He nods, emphatic. “Oh, yes. I’ve been surrounded by people—people and cameras—for fifteen, twenty years. But skating was my best friend. My love.” He turns to Yuuri, the smile on his face impossibly wide. His voice swells with furious delight. “And my love was dying in my arms.”

Yuuri is too shocked to feel privileged, in the moment. Viktor’s smile strikes him as either pathetic—trying to stave off his obvious pain—or morbid, and he likes neither option. “Are you saying… that’s why you came here to be my coach? Because…”

When Viktor shrugs, it’s a slightly manic gesture, like he can’t quite get the invisible weight off his shoulders. “Oh, I can’t say why I did that, exactly. I’m mysterious even to myself, sometimes.”

Yuuri gulps. He isn’t sure what the appropriate response is. Viktor had opened up, but what he revealed—Yuuri would feel stupid, thanking him for sharing _that_. “I didn’t know you were that close to retiring,” he manages.

“I wanted to stop before I started losing.” Viktor laughs to himself. “I would’ve hated that. Getting old and losing.”

“You’re not old.” The comment slips out. Yuuri doesn’t know why it makes him blush. He hates the thought, too— _getting old and losing_ —but Viktor should be immune to such concerns.

Viktor looks pleased, at any rate. “I’m not? You don’t think so?”

“I mean, in figure skating years, I suppose…”

Viktor pouts, but Yuuri isn’t paying attention. He’s busy thinking of the things he can’t see at night—the soft smooth skin of Viktor’s face, certainly without wrinkles—though Viktor’s the sort of man who will never look _old_ , only _distinguished._

“I understand,” Yuuri mutters, half hiding behind his knees.

Viktor peeks over to get a good look at him. “Do you? Because you think this’ll be your last season?”

“No—loneliness. Feeling like something is missing, or… or that what’s there isn’t enough.”

It takes Viktor a long moment for a simple response: “Oh. I see.” Yuuri fears the expression on Viktor’s face, so he doesn’t look up. His heart is pounding. 

Abruptly, Viktor turns away from him, pinning his gaze on the water. “Are you satisfied, then?”

“Satisfied, with…”

“What did you call it? Oh—transparency.”

 _Satisfied_ isn’t the correct word. But this isn’t Yuuri’s first language and he can’t think of a better one. “Thank you for sharing with me,” he says instead. “I feel better.” He isn’t sure he does, but the sentiment seems to bolster Viktor, and he likes pleasing Viktor more than he should.

“Yay! Good. Let’s walk home.”

Viktor gets to his feet and offers him a hand up. Yuuri slips his fingers around Viktor’s wrist and lets himself be pulled up. Once he’s on his feet, he moves to drop Viktor’s hand, but Viktor doesn’t let go, tugging Yuuri closer. When Yuuri glances up, Viktor’s eyes are boring into him.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight. I enjoyed our time together.” His eyes slide down Yuuri’s front. “I hope you’ll continue letting me take you out.”

Viktor is either an expert flirt or a person who frequently misses out on the innuendo in his non-native language. Yuuri prays for the latter, but it doesn’t really matter—his throat’s closed up and he’s sweating through his shirt, until Viktor finally drops his hand. Oddly enough, hearing him say _that_ on a moonlit beach might be worse than hearing him rhapsodize on Yuuri’s body making music while they’re naked in the baths. Only Viktor could be so committed to outdoing himself in this way.

“Are you all right?” Viktor asks, a hand on his elbow, guiding him toward the path off the beach. “You look dizzy.”

“I’m fine! Thank you! Just fine!”

“Yuuri, I’m glad you’re a figure skater and not an actor.”

This comment successfully shakes Yuuri out of his daze, and they meander home, Viktor launching back into the less-than-definitive ranking of the Japanese foods he’s tried so far.

 

 

**July**

The end of a routine always hits Yuuri like a bus. For minutes on end he exerts himself, barreling toward a climactic jump or step, minding every movement of his body from fingertips to toes. The skate winds him tighter and tighter and when he strikes the final pose, that’s release, and the energy flees him in a second. He forgets the perfect control over his body—sometimes he forgets how to hold himself upright. The after-skate is dizzying, a haze of exhaustion and satisfaction. He can hardly catch his breath. (It reminds him of something, but what?)

“That was just terrible!”

Yuuri’s eyes flutter open. It slipped his mind that this is an open practice, and Viktor has been watching him from the rinkside. He has on the vapid smile he wears when issuing a string of debilitating criticisms.

“It was bad?” It didn’t _feel_ bad when he was doing it—just the opposite.

“Today you skate with all the passion of a man expertly repairing a computer,” says Viktor gleefully. He moves to join Yuuri on the ice. “What do you think of when you think of perfection, Yuuri?”

The image that pops into Yuuri’s head is too embarrassing to repeat: Viktor’s quad flip. _Perfection_. “Um…”

“Perfection is that which is ideal, but ‘ideal’ is in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it?” Viktor glides a slow circle around him. “Stop thinking of perfection as ‘without flaw.’ When you overfocus on not making mistakes, your skating loses its music. _And_ you tend to make more mistakes, though that wasn’t the case this time.”

“So I should… make mistakes?”

Viktor laughs. The sound echoes strangely off the sides of the rink. “Of course not. But don’t think too much, I can see it in your face. And don’t be boring.”

 _I’m boring him again_. Yuuri quashes the thought. That can’t be productive. “I didn’t feel—I thought I was getting everything right.”

“You were, but your strength is not as a technical skater.” Viktor pauses his glide to give Yuuri a more genuine smile. “The people want to see Yuuri Katsuki. Don’t forget to give them Yuuri Katsuki.”

It concerns him he’s failed to _give them Yuuri Katsuki_ within a routine about his career. It concerns him too much, actually—enough that his knees feel weak. He lowers his head, stuffing down panic in the hope that Viktor won’t notice.

But there’s a light touch on his forearm. He looks up; Viktor’s gaze warms him, first comfortably, and then burning his cheeks. “Let’s fix it together,” Viktor says.

Yuuri manages a nod. Hard to say if he’s calmer, or if embarrassment chased off his anxiety.

“Obviously we can’t expect you to excel simply because the routine is about you. There’s more to it than that.”

“Yes…”

Viktor skates away from him, giving them both room to work. “Tell me what the Ina Bauer is supposed to represent.” He does the move himself, as natural as taking a step.

Yuuri struggles to remember—he had worked with Viktor carefully to compose the program, but in the end it became more a list of jumps and footwork than a story. “It’s… an embrace?”

“Who are you embracing?”

Yurri tugs his lower lip. “Um… you?”

“ _Um_ ,” Viktor echoes, not very nicely. “No more _um_. Who!”

“I’m supposed to be embracing you as my coach.”

Viktor halts, sending up a spray from the ice, and stares him down. “No more _supposed to,_ either. We need more. We need a katsudon.”

Yuuri smiles weakly. Viktor is right, but he doesn’t have any suggestions, and the thought of digging deeper—having to think harder about what Viktor’s arrival meant to him—daunts him. He isn’t ready to dive into that mess. Not yet.

Viktor hums, taps his skate against the ice, pushes his hair off his forehead. He’s doing magic in his head right now, and his eyes seem especially blue against the castle’s greyscale backdrop. Yuuri’s stomach hurts.

Viktor’s head snaps up. “Let’s talk about an _embrace_ , okay?” _Oh no_ , says a little voice in the back of Yuuri’s head. “Ina Bauer is an embrace because it signals _openness_ —the beginning of every embrace, an openness and a passion. It could be a hug or a kiss. We embrace our family and our friends. We embrace our lovers. We embrace ideas.” Viktor raises a long, willowy arm, and points at Yuuri. “What was our embrace?”

Yuuri’s lips part, but he can’t answer.

Viktor drifts toward him. “How are you supposed to skate it if you don’t know?”

“It was all of those things.” Viktor pauses, listening, his eyes round. “A hug and a kiss. And it was an idea.” Yuuri has to overcome a funny feeling when the word _kiss_ escapes him. It’s only a metaphor, a show of intimacy and trust; Viktor couldn’t have meant it literally. But the implication is enough to leave a flutter in his belly.

“Good,” says Viktor, in what sounds like a sigh. “It was many things. So it should feel excessive. Uncontainable.” He moves back toward the ringside, hands behind his back. “Make me feel the embrace merely from watching you—the kiss that’s more than a kiss, all too much—” Viktor sweeps into a pose, and then rests, his eyes settling on Yuuri. “Remember, if you capture me, you can capture anyone. So capture me with a kiss.”

 _What a ridiculous thing for a person to say_ , Yuuri thinks, though he can’t remember how to swallow. Or breathe. “I’ll try,” he manages.

“Okay—take it from a little before.”

Their training session ends and Yuuri isn’t sure if he’s successfully captured Viktor with a kiss, but he does capture a “passable” rating on his Ina Bauer. Viktor instructs him to cool down and vanishes without an explanation.

Yuuri relaxes the moment he’s alone on the ice—a less profound relaxation than a few weeks ago, when he’d only just opened himself up to Viktor, but he can’t will away the nerves all at once. The process of learning to trust Viktor has been a marathon, not a sprint. Yuuri hopes the feeling of security awaiting him across the finish line will be proportionally satisfying.

As he’s coming off the ice, he gets cornered by one of the triplets—Lutz? (Secretly he can’t tell them apart.) “Yuuri-san!” she squeaks, and shakes him by the arm of his sweater. “Coach Viktor said you have to _really_ kiss him!” Yuuri chokes on his own spit. “Why aren’t you kissing him better?”

Yuuko appears from nowhere, panting, apparently in pursuit of her daughter. “Sorry! They keep sneaking into your sessions—I’m sorry, Yuuri!”

Trying to find his balance again, he gets out, “It’s okay! It’s fine. Coach Victor—it was a metaphor.”

“Metaphor,” Lutz echoes, her eyes glittering. It might be a new word for her.

Her mother frowns. “A kiss as a metaphor? For what?”

“Um. You know.”Yuuri hobbles to the nearest bench, where he collapses and begins the painful task of removing his skates. “A kiss is a metaphor for opening yourself up to… an intimate connection. With another person.”

Yuuko purses her lips, then taps Lutz on the shoulder. “Go find your father and tell him it’s time to clean the ice.”

“But I want to hear you talk to Yuuri-san about Coach Victor!”

“ _Go_ ,” Yuuko insists. The little girl totters off with a marvelous pout—she’s been taking inspiration from Viktor himself. Yuuko plunks down beside Yuuri. “So you haven’t kissed Viktor?”

“Kissed—you mean _literally_? On the mouth?”

“Huh,” says Yuuko, rubbing her chin. “So why was he talking about kissing?”

Yuuri slides his left foot free and hisses at the dozen or so red welts peppering his skin. At least the pain distracts him from what Yuuko’s implying. “He wanted me to kiss—the Ina Bauer—”

“He wants you to kiss Ina Bauer?”

“ _No_ , the Ina Bauer during the sequence where we meet. I’m supposed to treat it like a kiss… a kiss that was more than a kiss? An overwhelming embrace.”

“So interesting,” she murmurs, staring at him like he’s a museum exhibit.

“It’s not! It was just a _metaphor_.”

“But he chose a kiss. That seems—” He shoots her a desperate look, _please don’t_. “Did it _have_ to be a kiss?”

“Yes,” says Yuuri, without thinking. Viktor had encapsulated it perfectly. Yuuri didn’t know why he felt sure of that, but he did, he was certain. Only a kiss could describe what had happened. Though he clung to the idea that it was a metaphorical kiss, because it had to be—he _hadn’t_ kissed Viktor. And the story they were telling was true, wasn’t it?

Yuuko shrugs and brightens. “I suppose if it gets you that gold medal, no one can argue with him.”

“It’s true, he’s the best.” When Yuuri yanks off his right skate, an audible groan escapes him. Yuuko pops to her feet.

“I’ll leave you to unwind! Your mother’s invited us for dinner tonight, by the way.”

“See you then,” says Yuuri. She waves to him over his shoulder.

Alone again, he leans back and lets his eyes fall closed. _Capture me with a kiss._ Perhaps Yuuko had a point: he didn’t fully understand this request, not yet, and he wouldn’t be able to perform to Viktor’s standard until he did. Frustrating, but what about reinventing himself as a skater hadn’t been?

Yuuri picks up his skates and limps back to the locker room, wincing with every step.

 

 

 

Dinner that night is the circus you’d imagine. With twelve people—Minako had been invited too—including three young children and a large dog, there’s no room to feel any shred of discomfort at Viktor’s presence, or to recall the nagging thoughts about his and Yuuko’s conversation that led him to skip their usual post-training onsen. In fact, the triplets shoehorn themselves between Yuuri and Viktor at the table, so Yuuri loses track of his coach throughout the night.

Their only interaction during the meal is when Yuuri happens to glance up and meet Viktor’s eye, just for a moment. Viktor, lips curling slyly, winked at him, and Yuuri’s mouth went dry. Mari quickly drew Viktor away, but the wink stuck with Yuuri long after he’d finished his meal.

Yuuri escapes to his room before anyone can drag him into another conversation. _Tomorrow_ , he decides. _Tomorrow I’ll deal with this._

But he’s unlucky, too unlucky for his plan to go smoothly: Yuuri wakes in the middle of the night to scratching at his bedroom door. He fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand, then crawls out of bed to check the hallway.

Makkachin’s furry face awaits him. “What do you need?” Yuuri murmurs, and the dog patters down the hall to paw at the courtyard door. Yuuri obliges, opening it for him.

“Makkachin, _no—_ ” That’s Viktor’s voice behind him, in a harsh whisper. He’s peeking into the hall from his room.

“I let him out,” says Yuuri softly. “You can go back to sleep.”

Ignoring the offer, Viktor steps down into the hall, clad in only his robe—and barely in that. His clothes seem repelled by his body, it’s awful. “I’m sorry he woke you up. I _was_ getting up to take him, but he’s too impatient.”

Yuuri fixes his eyes on the darkness of the courtyard, the crickets chirping wildly in the summer night’s warmth. Somehow it had gotten to be July—Yuuri can hardly believe this. Time has never felt so precious.

Viktor yawns not far from his ear and Yuuri jumps. “Sorry,” Viktor murmurs, peering over his shoulder into the courtyard. “Trying to see what he’s up to.”

Yuuri scoots out of his way, Viktor’s raised eyebrows following him.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Yuuri shoves his fingers under his glasses, rubbing his eyes vigorously. “No. I can’t stop thinking about what you said today.”

Viktor shakes his head. “A little work and you’ll be there. The problem is the difference between greatness and excellence—only excellence will get us gold.”

“That wasn’t… not the criticism.”

“Then what?”

Yuuri glances back out into the night. If only Makkachin could pee a little faster. “I don’t understand how the Ina Bauer is a kiss.” Viktor squints at him, and so he keeps talking, though this could be a mistake: “I understand the metaphor of the embrace, and I understand that an embrace can be a kiss, but I don’t understand the metaphor of the kiss. It… I don’t know. I don’t get it and I’m afraid that means I can’t do it correctly.”

A smile creeps on to Viktor’s face. “Wow.” Yuuri could shake him. _Don’t smile at me and say ‘wow’ when I’m trying to understand your strange instructions_. “It makes sense that you’re confused, Yuuri. Since the kiss wasn’t a metaphor.”

Yuuri’s heart stalls in his chest. “It wasn’t?”

“No,” says Viktor softly, still with that smile.

A long moment of silence passes between them.

Then Viktor steps forward.

As soon as he stoops toward Yuuri, Yuuri pulls back. It’s not a rejection—how could it be, when Yuuri has _always_ —but in his head he imagined that invisible barrier between them, that would prevent this from ever happening, because of what it could do to him. _A kiss that’s more than a kiss, all too much._

Viktor’s fingers just miss Yuuri’s wrist as he ducks away, and when he looks up, Viktor is wearing an expression Yuuri has never seen on him before. It’s not an easily described look—not quite crushed, not quite horrified, not quite surprised. It makes Yuuri feel like someone’s dug claws into his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and dives around Viktor, running for the safety of his room. _Viktor tried to kiss me_. Yuuri slides his bedroom door shut and leans back against it, breathing deeply, his heart pounding. _Viktor tried to kiss me_. He had, right? That’s what that was? Not just—leaning into pull an eyelash from Yuuri’s cheek. _Viktor tired to kiss me._ That’s the only explanation, and Yuuri knows it. He wishes he could convince himself otherwise, but he’s not so naive as that.

 _Viktor tried to kiss me. And I moved away_. _Viktor, who I…_

Damn. _Shit._

 

 

 

It takes him an hour to fall asleep—he listens intently to any sound from the hall, even after Viktor has clearly gone back to his room.

But he wakes up the next morning having forgotten the entire thing. It’s a normal morning, aside from the fact that he’s running late for training again, and getting himself dressed and out the door consumes his attention. He dashes through the house, inhaling a little breakfast, and sprinting the distance from Yu-topia to the ice castle. He wishes he could say this is only the second time this has happened, but it’s more like the tenth. He’s not good with alarms or mornings, per se.

Yuuri bursts into the ring, pulling his skates on as he goes, shouting apologies to Viktor. He can’t see him, but he must be there, he always seems to be on time when Yuuri isn’t.

Then Yuuri gets to the edge of the ice, straightens up, and lays eyes on Viktor. And that moment last night in the hallway comes back to him, like a boomerang, fast and poised to hurt.

Viktor seems… normal. He smiles vacantly at Yuuri from the center of the ice. Like nothing happened.

But it did. It _so_ did. Yuuri remembers, he was there!

“You’re late,” Viktor says, his tone clipped, but no more than it’s been on any of Yuuri’s other late days.

“I know, I’m—I missed my alarm again.”

“Just get out here and warm up.” Yuuri listens for anger in his voice, but Viktor sounds himself, if a smidgen more subdued than usual. He stays quiet while Yuuri warms up, then glides over to the music station on the side of the rink. “I’ll have you run the full program again today, keeping in mind what we talked about yesterday.”

What they talked about yesterday? The thing that Yuuri said he didn’t understand, which led Viktor to try to—Yuuri doesn’t move, gaping at Viktor’s back as he fiddles with the mp3 player.

“You mean…”

“The kiss emotion! Look for it wherever you need to find it.” When Viktor turns around, he seems surprised to find that Yuuri isn’t skating. “Is there a problem?”

 _Yes. I’ve gone crazy._ Yuuri forces himself to shut his gaping mouth. If Viktor is all right, then… then there shouldn’t be anything to feel strange about. “No. Sorry. Please start the music again.”

Viktor does, and Yuuri launches into his free skate like he’s done two dozen times in the last few weeks. He knows right away that something is off—his heart beats erratically in his chest, and his knees are weak, like they could lock at any second. Viktor’s eyes are on him as he cuts across the rink, but they don’t carry their usual uplifting power. Instead the weight of Viktor’s gaze drags behind him, slowing his movements.

He attempts the first jump and tumbles out of it, landing on his tailbone. Normally he’d climb up from a fall and keep going, but it doesn’t seem worth it. He can’t skate like this.

Viktor races toward him, of course. “Yuuri, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine!” Yuuri scrambles to his feet, wanting to get away before Viktor reaches down to help him. As soon as he has his footing, he rushes off the ice, hiding his face. “I need a moment! Sorry—”

There’s a small, rarely used locker room off the vending area, and Yuuri stows away there, collapsing into the nearest chair with his head between his knees.

It showed in his skating—what happened last night, what happened with Viktor. It always shows in his skating, _always_ , he should have know. Because his skating and his life aren’t different, they’re tangled up beyond distinction. When Viktor wraps himself up in one, he winds his way into the other, inevitably.

 _And you used to dream about that_. That’s why it’s hard. Because he _wants_ it, and wanting things—it’s so hard, to put yourself out there, to open yourself up with arms wide—

He laughs, around a messy sob. The Ina Bauer. _To open yourself up with arms wide_. Of course.

The locker room door creaks open. A pair of blue eyes peeks at him. “May I come in?”

“Yep,” Yuuri hiccups.

Viktor slides into the room, a frown marring his face. “Yuuri…”

Yuuri waits for him to say anything else, but Viktor busies himself looking around the dusty little room. He might as well whistle and scuff his shoe, it’d have the same effect.

And then, finally, “I _am_ sorry.”

Yuuri lowers his gaze to the dirty floor. “Don’t ever use a line like that on me again.”

“A _line_?” Viktor sounds affronted that he could ever be accused of such ingenuity, which would be hilarious if Yuuri weren’t preoccupied with a crusade.

“Yes! That—‘the kiss wasn’t a metaphor,’ and then you lean in to kiss me!” Yuuri hobbles to his feet, an accusatory finger raised. “Did you call it a kiss just so you could say something like that?”

“I—no _,_ I didn’t plan for that!” Pink creeps up Viktor’s cheeks. “Though I thought it worked out nicely. I guess not.”

Yuuri takes a couple of steps toward him, gathering his courage. “I don’t want lines, or—or fake charisma. You said if I opened up, you would open up. No more lines.”

Viktor searches him for a moment, then nods. “No more lines. Please forgive me.”

Forgiveness Yuuri can surely manage. “Okay, I do. I forgive you.” He offers Viktor a small smile, and gets one in return.“There’s just one other thing. Can you bend down a little?”

Viktor blinks in surprise—he doesn’t know what’s coming (amazing), but he obeys anyway, stooping so his and Yuuri’s heights are nearly equal. Yuuri inhales, then grips Viktor’s face with both hands and kisses him.

He can’t remember how long has passed since his last kiss, but he recalls every ounce of knowledge and expertise he has and puts that into this one, moving deeply and carefully, because he could surprise Viktor, and he wants that. And judging from the limited range of Viktor’s response, Yuuri _has_ surprised him—the way Viktor parades himself about, Yuuri expected his kiss would be met with an equally passionate embrace, or he’d be had up against the lockers, any gesture suited for a shoujo manga.

But Viktor clams up. He presses back against Yuuri tentatively and whines under his breath. When Yuuri breaks the kiss, he leaves Viktor gasping for breath.

And it’s the best Yuuri has felt in too long. He grabs Viktor’s hand, and starts drags him back toward the rink.

And that morning, he gives the best performance of his free program thus far.

 

 

**August**

“Should I tell him, or do you want to?” Yuuko whispers in Yuuri’s ear. He isn’t sure which would be worse—delivering the news to Viktor, or looking on helplessly while he receives it.

Fifteen seconds into Viktor’s newest program, and Yuuri already has significant regrets. When Viktor first suggested he show them what he’d been working on, Yuuko had shrieked in excitement—Viktor’s time at the ice castle only made his genius increasingly obvious, so Viktor asking to show you a new skate was a lot like Picasso asking you to look over a couple of his recent sketches. Even Yuuri, who was skating Viktor’s choreography everyday, felt his heart flutter when Viktor took the ice.

Viktor comes out of a jump and risks a glance at his audience—and he stops the routine short. “What is it? Why do you two look so alarmed?”

“Viktor,” says Yuuri carefully. “What is this music?”

“It’s Bruno Mars,” Yuuko murmurs.

“It’s Bruno Mars!” Viktor repeats, aghast. He looks urgently between the two of them. “ _Oyoyoy_. It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

Yuuri gives him a sheepish smile, but Yuuko is more forward: “It’s _very_ strange!”

Viktor sails over to turn off the music. “I was going for surprising, not strange. I want to skate like Bruno Mars dances.” He does a demonstrative move. It’s cute, but Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t skate _cute_. 

“It was—surprising,” Yuuri manages. “But only because it doesn’t seem like… you.” He can’t remember any of Viktor’s other routines drawing so much attention to his backside.

“That’s the surprise!”

“It reminds me of one of Giacometti’s programs… or Leroy.”

“Oo,” Yuuko gasps. “I see the resemblance!”

Viktor’s face contorts horribly. “No!” He traces a circle in the ice, arms across his chest. “Yakov was always there to shoot down my most creative ideas. He might have been on to something.”

“It’s not a bad program,” says Yuuri. “It needs to be toned down, maybe…”

Viktor tosses his head. “Well, I’ve never claimed to be perfect.”

“You said ‘I am perfect’ at breakfast this morning. Remember?”

“Tsk! You know very well that I do not.” Nose in the air, Viktor skates away from them. Yuuri is startled to find Yuuko staring at him, her chin in her hands.

“You and Viktor are cute.”

Yuuri goes bright red, and presses his hands to his cheeks. She— _really_ doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “Um.”

“Oh, Yuuri. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No, I know—it’s okay.”

“It’s just nice to see you having a good time!” Yuuri’s blush deepens, and Yuuko quickly adds, “In the rink, I mean.”

“Mmhmm!”

“And outside the rink.”

Yuuri buries his face in his hands. “Please stop.”

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, turning back to watch Viktor’s skate. “Only, I can remember when we were teenagers, and we watched him on television together.” Yuuri peeks at her from between his fingers; she has a wistful smile on her face. “And how you would look at him. We all looked at him like he was… but the way you did, it was a little different. I think it’s amazing that you get to know him, now.”

“I kissed Viktor.”

Yuuko shrieks, and it draws Viktor’s eye from the opposite side of the rink. She ducks behind the barrier, hands clamped over her mouth. _Why did I say that_ , Yuuri groans inwardly. He sinks down beside her.

“You told me you and Viktor _hadn’t_ kissed!”

“That was before it happened…”

“ _When_?”

“Um—three weeks ago, I guess?”

Yuuko grabs his arm. “You and Viktor kissed three weeks ago and you didn’t tell me? What’s going on?” She asks a good question, and it’s not one Yuuri can answer—he can’t count how many times he’s wondered this since the kiss. The first was after he finished his routine the day of, a genuine triumph, and Viktor cheered him on from rinkside. They’d gone to the onsen, shared dinner with his family, walked Makkachin along the beach. And not once did Viktor mention what happened, or make a move on Yuuri, or sneak in one of his sly flirtations. Yuuri was too confused in the moment to say anything—had he imagined the whole thing? What _was_ going on?

The next days passed in the same strangely unremarkable fashion, jogging and skating and the onsen, dinner and dog walks, board games and visits to the beach. By the end of the week, Yuuri successfully scrubbed the kiss from his memory, enough to play along with Viktor’s ignorance.

“We haven’t talked about it,” Yuuri tells Yuuko, keeping his voice low. He can hear the distant sound of Viktor’s skates against the ice. “It just—happened, and then we never brought it up again.”

Yuuko shakes her head. “Viktor really _is_ weird, isn’t he? Who kisses someone and never mentions it again?”

“Oh… I was the one who kissed him, actually.”

“So _you’re_ the one that kissed somebody and never mentioned it again?”

For all his postulating, Yuuri’s never considered it this way. “But Viktor is…” The playboy. The handsome one. The flirt. “If he were interested, he’d be coming on to me.”

“I guess it makes sense, if he hasn’t come on to you,” Yuuko admits. A series of images flashes through Yuuri’s head: Viktor taking his hands in the bath, buying him food and drinks, his low whistles, their almost-kiss in the hallway.

“Oh no.” He turns to Yuuko, horror sinking through him. “I think… oh no.” _I messed it up. I messed it all up—again._

“It’ll be fine,” Yuuko whispers. “Just talk to Viktor.”

“What about Viktor?”

Yuuri and Yuuko yelp in tandem: Viktor leans over the barrier, smiling down at them.

“I can hear you say my name even when you’re speaking Japanese! Do you need something?”

“It was nothing.” Yuuri clambers to his feet. “I’ll—we can talk later, I need to warm up.” He’s on the ice and speeding away from Viktor and Yuuko a second later. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees Viktor say something to Yuuko, and she responds, then trots off. Viktor turns around and catches Yuuri’s eye, and cocks his head to the side, the curiosity in his expression forcing Yuuri to turn away. For the first time in weeks, he wants to hide from Viktor. It’s like the ground slips beneath him, dragging him backwards.

Viktor makes it clear through their session that Yuuri’s mood shows in his skating, though he didn’t need to, Yuuri knew. “You need extra sessions with Minako this week,” Viktor decides. “Go there and don’t come back until you’ve remembered how to carry yourself, okay?” He says this with a smile, but it feels to Yuuri like a kick in the gut.

Minako is in a class when he arrives, so he waits and watches her direct a dozen four-year-olds through the basics of first position. There’s only one boy in the class, and Yuuri’s heart hurts for him—he doesn’t know yet how hard it’s going to be, just being himself. _You’re projecting_. Well—so what? Yuuri slumps down in his chair.

The little dancers flood out of the studio, greeting their waiting parents, some of whom had recognized Yuuri and asked for pictures. Minako beckons him into the classroom. “I have an hour before my next lesson. Let’s work.”

 

 

 

“Look at your back right now.”

Yuuri glances at his reflection, and adjusts his posture accordingly. “Sorry.”

“Oh, hm. I can see why Coach Viktor sent you to me.”

At the mention of Viktor, Yuuri’s shoulders tighten—which wouldn’t be noticeable, if the two of them weren’t examining his body in a huge mirror.

“Yuuri-kun. What’s the matter?”

He shakes out his shoulders. _Stupid_. “Nothing. Sorry.” He tries the pose again, focusing on keeping the tension where it should be. Minako paces the back of the studio, watching him work.

“I mentioned Coach Viktor—” Yuuri’s shoulders lock up again. “—and you became agitated,” Minako finishes, a laugh under her voice. “Yuuri! I thought you were doing better with your anxiety around Viktor.”

Groaning, Yuuri gives up on the ballet, and lowers his forehead to the bar. “It seems like I’m not doing well?”

“Oh, it seems like you’re doing terribly, and it’s affecting your work.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath and pulls himself up. He meets his teacher’s eye in the mirror. “I think I made a mistake, Minako-sensei.”

“Hmm.” She comes to stand beside him, lifting her leg to stretch it against the bar. “A very bad mistake?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“You obsess over your mistakes.” Her bluntness surprises him, but he’s listening. “In skating and dance, mistakes are reparable. They can be overcome with passion. But you’ve always had trouble remembering that, Yuuri-kun.”

His eyes slip toward the floor. This error he’s made with Viktor—an error he can hardly describe, but he knows he slipped up—could he fix it? Could he get up from a fall, and skate the rest of the program flawlessly?

“Harmony between you and Viktor has made your skating truly exceptional, Yuuri-kun.” He raises his head, and finds Minako smiling warmly at him. “Don’t you want to win the Grand Prix? What would you do if this were an axel you couldn’t get right?”

“I’d work until it was—” He’s about to say perfect, but Viktor has encouraged him not to use that word. “—excellent.”

“And now you have homework,” Minako says, and pats his cheek. “Now, the camel. Show me again!”

It’s dark by the time he leaves Minako’s. His steps are heavy on his trek home; the same anxiety he gets before a match makes his hair stand on end.

His mother greets him with a kiss on the cheek. “Viktor said to have katsudon ready for you when you came home.” The smells wafting off the bowl are heavenly, and his stomach growls. But they aren’t celebrating anything—it’s odd.

“Where is Viktor?”

“He took Makkachin for a walk!” And he’d gone walking without Yuuri, too?

Yuuri inhales the meal and pries his mother for an idea of where Viktor had headed tonight. She says he mentioned something about wanting a good view, so Yuuri has his first clue. On his way out, he grabs the yellow bike from its storage spot in the yard. He wants to be sure he catches up with Viktor. He can’t say why, only that it’s imperative.

At the resort entrance, he takes the road out of town, flying along the dark winding path. A couple of kilometers walking from Yu-topia is a hill with a decent overlook—as a kid, Yuuri would climb it to spot the ice castle on the opposite end of town. He’d only taken Viktor there once, on his second week in Hasetsu, when Yurio was still with them. He’d said something derogatory about the size of the city, and Viktor argued with him. Yuuri had thought the hill didn’t interest him, but it now appears he’d misunderstood.

He has to push the bike up the unpaved path to the hill’s summit, but he soon hears Makkachin’s greeting yap.

Viktor on his back in the grass, and twists his neck to see Yuuri arriving. “You found me.”

“Okaasan helped.” Yuuri hesitates before approaching Viktor, who settles back as he was, staring up. “Can I join you?”

“Of course. I’m enjoying the stars.”

Yuuri carefully lays down the bike, and joins Viktor, though it takes him a moment to settle back. A breeze sweeps through the hilltop clearing, alleviating the sticky nighttime heat. Yuuri understands suddenly why Viktor has chosen to lie on his back—they’re far enough from the town lights that the dark sky glitters with hundreds of bright dots.

“You couldn’t see them in St. Petersburg,” says Viktor softly.

“I never noticed before.”

“Perhaps you never needed to.”

Yuuri sneaks a sideways glance at Viktor. He came here to _act_ , to make a difference, and he can’t do it like this. Yuuri sits up. “Can you—just for a second—I need to talk to you.”

Viktor regards him skeptically, but he does pull himself up. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

His fists tightening, Yuuri twists himself around until he directly faces Viktor, then adjusts his seat again, and runs his hand through his hair. Which is all stalling, of course. _Harmony between you and Viktor_ —Yuuri will do whatever he must to secure it, but that doesn’t make this easy. He and Viktor are a natural fit, something he couldn’t have imagined a year ago, something he still can barely wrap his head around. Yet nothing comes easily to Yuuri, not in skating or in life. Even the most natural thing can be harder than he knows how to express, and it feels unfair, like struggling to breathe.

“I want to talk about what happened with us.” His tongue has turned to lead. Viktor tilts his head back, closing his eyes. His usually expressive mouth is a line.

“What happened with us.”

“When we kissed. I don’t understand what that was, at all.”

Viktor lowers his chin. “ _You_ don’t understand?” Yuuri’s stomach sinks. He gets the sense that he’s about to be disciplined, which confuses him—probably why you’re not supposed to get involved with a coach. But Viktor only shrugs, and turns his attention to picking grass out of Makkachin’s foot. “That makes two of us, then.”

“I’ve liked you since I was twelve years old.”

Viktor freezes, and Yuuri wishes he could sink into the ground—or better, drift up into the stars. “Really?”

Yuuri pulls his knees to his chest. “I think you were my sexual awakening.” This startles a huge laugh out of Viktor. “I used to—I don’t want to get too specific, but…”

Viktor’s laughter grows into a roar. “Sexual awakening!”

Yuuri buries his face behind his knees. At least it’s too dark for see the color of pink in his cheeks. “This is not how I was hoping this would go, just so you know.” Being laughed at by Viktor after admitting something so… he’s sure he’s had a nightmare that went similarly.

“Oh? How were you hoping it would go?” Viktor asks, his grin audible.

“I thought I gave you mixed signals, and I wanted you to know that it’s not because of you, it’s because of me—and you. Me being around you. After all this time. And not wanting to be laughed at.”

When he peeks over his knee, Viktor’s smile has vanished. Instead he watches Yuuri with a frown pinching his lips. He leans over and murmurs to Makkachin, “Yuuri is silly sometimes, isn’t he?”

Good, just what Yuuri hoped for—getting insulted to a dog. He recognizes the feeling of humiliation settling over him, more familiar than he’d care to admit. “Okay,” he announces, and starts getting to his feet. “I’m just—I’ll go.”

“Yuuri, stop.”

But he doesn’t, making for the bike, knowing that even if Viktor chases him he can escape.

“Yuuri Katsuki!” Viktor’s arm folds around his waist, and Viktor lifts him from behind.

“Viktor!”

“I’ll only set you down if you agree to hear me out.”

Yuuri wriggles against his grip, but he gets a whiff of cologne and loses the will to fight. “Okay. Just please put me down.”

“Okay!” Viktor releases Yuuri, and turns him around, gripping his shoulders. “Here is what I have to say to you.” Yuuri shuts his eyes, bracing for impact. “It’s absurd that you think the person you looked up to as a child is the same one standing in front of you right now.”

Yuuri cracks one eye open. “Sorry?”

“You may have felt like you knew me back then, but you didn’t.” Viktor shakes his head, hair obscuring his eyes. “I wish you would think of me as someone new. A real person, not a fantasy. That’s what I like so much about this place—it feels real.” A smile stretches his lips. “I want to be a handsome stranger in your life. All this luggage we’re carrying is too heavy.”

“I think the expression is ‘baggage.’”

“Baggage, then!”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” says Yuuri. Viktor’s smile shrinks. “I mean—you’re Viktor. You’ve always been Viktor, before I knew you, and now, too.”

“Can you think of me as a person and not a poster come to life?”

Yuuri snorts. “I can try. I _am_ trying.”

Viktor releases his arms. “Let me help.” He takes a big step back from Yuuri, clears his throat, then extends his hand. “My name is Viktor Nikiforov. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

He keeps his hand extending, waiting for Yuuri to take it. _This is fake. I can’t do it._

“Imagine I had done this three months ago. Or a year,” Viktor whispers, nudging him along with a wink. _A year?_

Yuuri slots his hand into Viktor’s and shakes. “I’m Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Yuuri Katsuki! What a strong sounding name you have. I’m sure it suits you.” Viktor uses their linked hands to tug Yuuri close. “Yuuri Katsuki, how do you feel about me?”

“I thought I just met you?”

“No, fast-forward to now!”

“I like you,” Yuuri mumbles.

Viktor sounds like he wants to temper the note of desperation under his voice, but it sneaks through anyway. “Yes, but do you like _me_ , or the man in the posters?”

“They’re posters of you!” This is beginning to make Yuuri’s head hurt.

Viktor keeps pushing, his grip on Yuuri’s hand tightening. “Do you like the skater you used to watch on television, the world champion—or do like your coach of three months? Do you like your idol or your friend?”

A realization parts Yuuri’s lips. “I like my idol.” He feels Viktor stiffen. Not the answer he wanted. “But I love my friend.”

Viktor’s eyes go round and wide, his whole face seeming to open as if in bloom. This sight reinforces the idea Viktor had struggled earnestly to communicate—that what they had now, between the two of them, was beyond anything Yuuri’s adolescent mind could dream up. This is _reality_ , and nothing could be more original in its splendor.

Yuuri stuffs his nose into Viktor’s shoulder, and wraps himself around his torso. “I didn’t ask about love,” says a voice by his ear. Viktor’s arms wind around him.

“Don’t tell me I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” Viktor wriggles away from Yuuri slightly, and disappointment kicks in. Until Viktor tilts up his chin. “Is this all right?”

“I’ll tell you after you do it.”

Viktor giggles, and leans down to press his mouth against Yuuri’s. It’s like night and day, the way Viktor kissed him in the locker room back in July, and the way Viktor kisses him now. His kiss seems almost agonized, releasing an energy pent up so long it comes out sensitive and stinging. Not once had Yuuri figured Viktor for a bad kisser, even after their last encounter, and he knows now he was right: this is a _good kiss_ , a cinematic kiss, a performance to rival one of his skates in its passionate precision.

When Viktor moves away, he pulls a genuine moan from Yuuri’s lips. Yuuri isn’t coherent enough to feel embarrassed at that; he can barely keep his eyes open, and his head might be full of helium. “It was a very long few months for me,” says Viktor against his lips.

“Why didn’t you do that sooner?”

“I did try.”

“Oh.” Yuuri pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I was stupid.”

“Let me help you home.” Viktor glances around the clearing, and Yuuri remembers—Makkachin. The dog has been sitting a ways away with his back to them.

“Is he _trained_ not to watch?”

“I often share rooms with him,” says Viktor, sheepish. “It can get awkward—”

“More than I need to know!”

Together they walk the bike back, Makkachin bounding ahead of them. Their conversation is lighter and easier than Yuuri can remember it being, and it occurs to him that perhaps all his trouble came from trying to fit a square peg in a round hole—his misunderstanding of how he and Viktor fit so naturally.

With their desires revealed and their pasts shrugged off, the air between them is clear. Even the prospect of their future excites him into a delirium, because Viktor couldn’t leave all this. _This is reality_ , he’d said, and reality was what he wanted; Yuuri was what he wanted. Perhaps he hadn’t said as much outright, but his kiss felt like a promise, and Yuuri didn’t think to meditate on the worth of a Nikiforov promise.

 

 

**September**

“When you talked about sleeping together, this isn’t what I thought you meant.”

“But it’s so good,” Viktor whines, throwing his leg over Yuuri’s hips. “You’re just the right size for a pillow.” He burrows his face into the back of Yuuri’s neck, and then goes still. Yuuri feels himself dipping back into drowsiness. His phone told it him it was only seven—they could doze off for another hour and get to work at a decent time still. And it’s tempting, because Viktor is right: this is _very_ good.

Then Makkachin leaps into the bed, and Viktor wails in Yuuri’s ear, drowning out any hope for more sleep.

The situation’s difficulty intensifies with a knock at the door. Viktor’s head snaps up from his struggle against Makkachin, and he locks eyes with Yuuri.

“Should we—”

Yuuri shoves Viktor’s head under the covers.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“You have to tell me if you want to play rough,” whines Viktor’s muffled voice. He’s only gotten more embarrassing in the last few weeks.

Ignoring him, Yuuri calls, “Come in!” The door slides open and there is Mari, an unlit cigarette protruding from her mouth.

She takes one look at Yuuri in bed with a dog and a human-shaped lump of duvet, and sighs. “Come out, Viktor.”

Yuuri blurts, “We weren’t doing anything,” but he can see how that might be hard to believe as Viktor’s head pops out from under the covers. The static pulls his hair in every direction, but the grin on his face suggests he’s enjoying himself.

“Good morning, Mari-san! How I envy the cigarette on your lips.”

“How you can say that while in bed with my brother baffles me.”

“I’m a man of unknown depths!”

“Did you need something, Neechan?” Yuuri interjects, if only to lead this exchange in a different direction.

“Okaasan wanted me to tell you that she needs you to go into town and get some ingredients for her.”

“But I have to train, it’s only two weeks until Nationals—can’t you do it?”

Mari rolls her eyes, but before she can make a comeback, Viktor pokes his face into Yuuri’s. “No, let’s go together! We can take a morning off. It will help your mindset.” Viktor taps the center of Yuuri’s forehead for emphasis.

“I don’t know what you two think you’re hiding at this point,” Mari sighs, and slides the door shut behind her.

Alone again, Viktor globs on to Yuuri once more, making Yuuri squeak under his breath. Viktor doesn’t let go for a long moment, and Yuuri relaxes into his clinging hold, inhaling the scent of perfume that seems to follow Viktor everywhere.

“Viktor.”

“Mm?”

“Is it true that they all know about us?”

Viktor’s embrace relaxes, and he shifts so they can lie face-to-face. “I’m not very good at hiding things. Do you want it be a secret?”

“No… but a choice is nice.”

“I agree.” Viktor reaches between them to cup Yuuri’s cheek, and runs a thumb under his eye. “I suppose it’s my fault for being painfully obvious. So I’m sorry.” He leans forward and presses a light kiss to Yuuri’s lips. For all his affection, the hugs and casual touches he sneaks into their everyday lives, Viktor’s kisses are rare. He reserves this pinnacle gesture for special occasions, and Yuuri can understand why—it makes every one a surprise and a delight.

“We can really sleep together sometime, you know.” The sentence slips out of Yuuri as Viktor pulls away.

He has trouble gauging Viktor’s reaction, likely because Viktor himself doesn’t know how to react. Yuuri has caught him off-guard, clearly, and he can’t decide between excitement and some more measured, adult emotion. Viktor’s eye twitches with the indecision. “Is that what you want?”

After everything Yuuri has told Viktor, it seems like it shouldn’t be necessary for Yuuri to say this aloud, and forcing it just flusters him. But he did promise he would clean the slate—the only thing that counts is him and Viktor, in this moment, and what they feel for each other. “I do. And I think you do too?”

Desperation lights up Viktor’s eyes, but he speaks with restraint. “Yes. You’re right.”

“You _are_ painfully obvious.”

“I am. Oh yes.”

“So.” Yuuri is struggling not to laugh. “We can do that sometime?”

In answer, Viktor rolls onto his stomach, stuffs his face into Yuuri’s pillow, and whines under his breath. Yuuri loses himself to giggles, falling on Viktor’s shoulders, inhaling the scent of perfume.

 

 

 

They take their time heading into town on his mother’s errands. The weather has begun to cool, and being outside isn’t such torture anymore. Viktor and Yuuri’s arms brush as they walk, and it occurs to Yuuri they’ve spent an entire summer surrounded by one another, hours upon hours. That’s a hundred fleeting conversations, a handful of awkward moments, a thousand tiny gestures of fondness. At the beginning of June, he had trouble with the idea that Viktor could be a person within his real life—and now he’s a fixture.

Viktor, who is terrible at grocery shopping.

“But they’re marshmallows dipped in _chocolate_ , Yuuri. I could understand your hesitation if they were just marshmallows—”

“You’re the one who says I’m not supposed to have sweets too often!”

“Then I’ll eat them in front of you in bed. It’ll be seductive.”

Yuuri pries the package of marshmallows out of Viktor’s hands and returns it to the display. “We need to find lemongrass. Can you help me?”

“Okay.” Viktor deflates. They walk maybe ten feet, and he’s gasping again. “Oh! They have muesli—I haven’t had muesli in _months_ —” Yuurisorts through the produce while watching Viktor coo over a package of muesli. “I remember the first time we had muesli instead of that god-awful stuff—cream of wheat! Horrible, with the lumps…”

“Do you miss Russia?”

Viktor blinks up at him. He hadn’t meant it as a leading or invasive question, just something he… couldn’t help but wonder. “I like Japan,” says Viktor, a note of confusion in his tone.

“Oh, I know. I was more just, um…” Yuuri ducks his head. “I just hope you found what you were looking for, coming here.”

Viktor glances back at the muesli, then carefully stashes it on the nearest shelf. That makes Yuuri’s heart do a funny thing, which you wouldn’t think possible for a bag of muesli. He loops his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, drawing some looks from the other customers, but he doesn’t care, and it makes Yuuri wants to care less too. “Okay! Let me help.” He taps his head against Yuuri’s. “I do have a small question, though.”

“What’s that?”

“What is lemongrass!”

Eventually they find the fragrant herb and the rest of his mother’s items, and head for the check-out, but not before Yuuri dashes back to grab a few small things.

That night, they share Viktor’s roomier bed. In the morning, a silent alarm in Yuuri’s head stirs him before Viktor and he creeps into the kitchen, where not even his parents have stirred. The sun coming through the windows is still pink from the sunrise.

“The empty bed woke me up.”

Yuuri almost tips Viktor’s breakfast out into the sink at the sound of his voice. It’s like a bell in a silent place. “You—” Viktor stands watching him over the kitchen threshold, already fully dressed for the day in his black cashmere sweater.

“What are you doing?”

Yuuri hesitates, then steps forward and extends the bowl to Viktor in an offering. “I made you breakfast. Muesli—” He dives for the fridge. “I got milk, too.”

The smile on Viktor’s face alleviates the shaking of Yuuri’s nervous hands. He accepts the bowl, and lets Yuuri pour out the milk over it, then digs in with a spoon.

Viktor takes his first bite, and chews, and his nose wrinkles.

“What?” says Yuuri, urgently, worried he’d done it wrong.

Viktor swallows. “Hm. It’s just…” He sets the bowl back on the counter, peering at the swirling flakes of oat and grain, then shrugs. “Not as good as I remember.” But he perks up again in an instant. “Can we have katsudon for breakfast?”

**Author's Note:**

> there might be a sequel for this after the last episode airs, but i make no promises.
> 
> i'm on twitter @bigspoonnoya, and i tend to be most responsive there. thanks for reading.
> 
> x


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